


The Writing on the Wall

by c_ebonyastrum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Books, Bookstores, Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Falling In Love, Feel-good, First Kiss, First Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Height Differences, Hugs, Jealous Sherlock, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, No Smut, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Platonic Cuddling, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has A Crush, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock's Violin, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c_ebonyastrum/pseuds/c_ebonyastrum
Summary: Sherlock Holmes never wanted to fall in love. It would put a huge dent in the armor that his 'stone-cold disconnected genius' persona provided him, so he vowed to never feel anything beyond friendly camaraderie for anyone or anything. And, for a while, it worked--that is until Y/N came along._____Unbeknownst to all---even to Y/N, who works at the London Public Library---Sherlock finds the classic romance novels that he pretends to scorn utterly fascinating. However, it wasn't until Y/N moved into 221B with him that he starts to realize that he can relate more to the characters in those books than he cares to admit.*I'm back + looking for a beta + new chap :)*
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader
Kudos: 11





	1. If We Never Met

**Author's Note:**

> shamelessly asking you to kindly drop a kudos and/or comment hehe :3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it all begins.

Everyone wants to be a genius---after all, why not?

Why would anybody turn down the opportunity to be the one to make the next groundbreaking discovery that shapes the way our world is run, to be able to compute numbers faster than a calculator could do it, or to simply be on a higher plane of understanding than all the nitwits around you? Your mind would constantly be working ten times as hard and ten times as fast as that of ordinary people, and you would be able to come to completely thought-out conclusions before others even had the chance to start processing information. In simplest terms, you would be extremely intelligent.

And who wouldn’t want that?

Well, my darling reader, the thing is, if you were a genius (and perhaps you already are), you would be different from the rest of society. Very different. So different than those around you would either be in awe of your abilities or be incredibly intimidated by them. We all can only hope for the best, but the sad truth is that people get jealous. People get jealous of those who have what they do not, meaning they would be jealous of your astonishing intellect. 

You would most likely be seen as insane, as ‘a freak’ (as our dear friend Sally Donovan would say), or as someone who has spent their whole life tricking people without any real talent.

You would spend every second knowing that you are the one who is above everybody else and that you are the one who understands the world in a way few others can. Yet you would be outed for there wouldn’t be another living creature in the world who could match what your mind can do.

You would turn into a hardened machine with no one to talk to because you would be leaps and bounds ahead of them, and no one would be able to keep up with you.

That is life Sherlock Holmes lived every hour of every day.

Correction---that is the life Sherlock Holmes lived until he met Y/N.

___

Everyone on Baker Street knows not to disturb Sherlock while he plays the violin.

This means that recently, flat 221B has been much quieter than usual. Well, quieter in terms of people and conversation, certainly not in terms of music. In fact, it became quite common for the customers of Mrs. Hudson’s little cafe to glance towards the ceiling with furrowed brows, questioning the source of the almost rushed-sounding violin playing that occasionally descends into an erratic crescendo of jumbled notes.

Ever since John Watson had moved out of 221B and into his own home with Rosie, the prominence of Sherlock’s violin playing suddenly surged to the point where he would play for hours and hours. Whenever Mrs. Hudson dared venture upstairs in the morning to deliver tea or around midday to remind him to eat, she would always find Sherlock in almost the exact same state; dressed down, messy hair, face expressionless, and standing by the window as if playing to the passerbys on the sidewalk below.

I’m thinking. I’m composing. He would alternate between those two short phrases as explanations as to why he was suddenly so obsessively playing, but Mrs. Hudson knew better. He had done several cases so he certainly wasn’t bored (Mrs. Hudson knew what ‘bored’ looks like, and this isn’t it), and he seemed to be playing the same memorized-by-heart songs over and over so he surely wasn’t composing. 

He was lonely and needed a distraction.

Yes, even the great Sherlock Holmes who claims to be married to his work does need some human companionship. 

So, one dull-grey afternoon after she was shooed out of 221B by its sole occupant, Mrs. Hudson went down to her office and opened up a filing cabinet. She then pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and flipped through it, skimming past pages of hastily scribbled phone numbers and crossed out names, eyes scanning the writing until she found the ones she was looking for. 

Quickly tearing the page out of the notebook, Mrs. Hudson picked up her phone and carefully dialed the number, not sure what to expect but willing to try all the same.

To her great surprise, the person on the other end picked up on the first ring. 

A hesitant female voice came through. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello dear, this is Martha Hudson of Baker Street; do you happen to remember me?’

‘Oh, Mrs. Hudson the landlady, right?’

‘Right, I’m so glad you picked up. Now, a while ago I remember that you tried to rent a flat from me but I didn’t have any room left. As of right now though, I do have someone looking for a flatmate, and I imagine they will still be looking for quite a bit. Would you still be interested in sharing a flat?’

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. 

‘I… I really don’t know, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve been planning to get a flat on Carnaby Street so...’

‘Come on dear, I’ll cut you a deal. Seven percent discount and free crumpets from my shop every Sunday morning; as I said, I have someone looking for someone to live with and they really are terribly lonely. Consider it, won’t you dear?’

Another pregnant pause. 

‘I...’ says the voice, clearly thinking. ‘Ok.’

‘You’ll really do it, dear?’

‘Yes, I’ll take the flat; it’s a better deal than Ms. Woods over at Carnaby Street ever offered me.’

Mrs. Hudson beams, clapping her hands together excitedly despite talking over the phone and not in person. ‘Oh lovely; this is absolutely lovely! Alright, now you go cancel that flat in Carnaby Street and I’ll be in contact shortly, dear.’

‘Okay, thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson.’

‘No problem at all, darling; you really are doing me a favor.’

Mrs. Hudson glances to the door, vaguely noticing that the building is uncharacteristically silent, utterly void of Sherlock’s usual violin playing, before the voice of the woman over the line interrupts her thoughts. ‘...Mrs. Hudson?’

The landlady fumbles with the phone, quickly putting it back to her ear. ‘Terribly sorry, dear, I just got distracted for a second.’

‘Oh, no problem. I was just asking, who is my flatmate going to be?’

‘His name is Sherlock Holmes, dear.’

‘Huh...’

‘Have you heard of him?’

‘Oh, it isn’t that. It’s just that… Sherlock is a unique name. Never heard anything like it. What’s he like?’

Mrs. Hudson carefully considers this.

‘A bit eccentric, a bit quirky, but very smart. He’s a detective, darling.’

‘A detective. Not boring then?’

‘Heavens no.’

A light laugh comes from the phone.

‘Sounds great then. I’ll be in touch with you soon, Mrs. Hudson.’

‘And I with you, dear.’

Mrs. Hudson waits until the line beeps, signaling the end of the call, before practically rushing up the steps to 221B clutching the paper that she’d torn out of the notebook.

Knocking gently before pushing the door to the flat open, Mrs. Hudson peeks her head in and sees Sherlock standing by the window. It’s almost jarring to see him there without his violin rested in the crook of his neck or a messy stand of sheet music in front of him.

Before Mrs. Hudson can say a word, Sherlock turns around, hands behind his back. 

‘A flatmate.’ he says, as if testing how those words sound coming out of his mouth.

‘Yes indeed, dear. How did you know? You used those detective skills, didn’t you?’ Mrs. Hudson responds, unable to keep the smile off her face.

‘No; we have thin walls. I heard.’

Mrs. Hudson clasps her hands in front of her. ‘Well, a lovely woman from Birmingham is going to move in soon; took a bit of persuading but I’ve done it. It’ll be nice to have someone new here, especially seeing as you play that violin all day and barely go out to see the light of day.’

Sherlock, ignoring that little slight, says, ‘Why with me?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, why does she have to move in with me?’

‘Well, ever since John left, you seem terribly lonely; always cooped up in this flat. It would do you good to have some company here.’

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and Mrs. Hudson half-expects him to launch into a rant, listing reason after reason for why he doesn’t need a flatmate and hates being coddled and whatever else he manages to come up with, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he simply regards Mrs. Hudson with those inquisitive pale eyes and asks, ‘What’s her name?’

In response, Mrs. Hudson hands Sherlock the page from her notebook, which he quickly takes and scans over. 

‘The second name on the page, Sherlock.’ Mrs. Hudson says.

After several moments, Sherlock just stares at the paper, as if trying to burn a hole into it with his eyes. He stands utterly motionless for a total of 43 seconds before Mrs. Hudson clears her throat and pulls the door open behind her.

‘I’ll leave you to it then, dear.’ she says.

When Mrs. Hudson fails to get any sort of response of any sort from the perfectly still consulting detective, she just smiles and shuts the door to 221B.

Inside the flat, Sherlock is still standing in the exact same position, his eyebrows furrowed and head tilted. 

Who is this?

Why do they want to share a flat with me?

Why are they moving all the way from Birmingham to London?

How do they make their tea? People who add water before the teabag should be avoided at all costs.

But most of all: would they like me?

Running one finger absently over Mrs. Hudson’s loopy handwriting, Sherlock traces the curves of the vowels and the lines of the consonants that make up the name of his future flatmate.

Y/N Y/L/N.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh, would you look at that; my first fic here on ao3! update schedule is supposed to be wednesdays and sundays but i've been feeling a bit spontaneous so we'll be having random updates until i decide to stick to set days :)  
> this is fic is gonna be somewhat of a slow burn, no smut/implied smut (i have my reasons), but lots fluff. hope you guys stick around :3


	2. Every Little Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a new Baker Street friendship blooms, and you learn that that man's name isn't actually Gavin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot starts really picking up on wednesday and i'm so excited <3

That had been three months ago.

Three months ago, you’d met Sherlock Holmes; the tall, pale, eloquent, and slightly arrogant (also undeniably very attractive, not that you would ever admit it) consulting detective. He really wasn’t quite what you were expecting out of your new flatmate. Honestly, you weren’t really sure what you were expecting; probably something closer to a typical stocky, blond, Londoner. 

Although, you suppose that he does fit the image of a detective rather well; a trench coat and navy blue scarf does seem to be his autumn attire of choice, after all.

Three months ago, you’d shaken your new flatmate’s rather large hand and managed to slip in an introduction of your own before he paced slowly around you and deduced practically everything there was to know about you. He could tell you how you position your feet while walking based on the scuffs on the soles of your shoes; he could tell you how many train stations you’d been at based on the state of your luggage; he could tell you about all your nervous tics and habits merely by observing you standing before him in the cold autumn air. It really was as charming as it was awe-inspiring.

And three months ago, you’d officially become the second resident of 221B Baker Street. A few days after your arrival, Mrs. Hudson had told you in the passing that you were his second-ever flatmate, and his first was a man named John Watson who had moved out so he could have his own home with his daughter. That meant you were also the second person ever to experience all of Sherlock’s...quirks, shall we say, firsthand.

On your fourth day in London, you were still searching for a job, and the consulting detective offhandedly asked you if you would be interested in joining him on a case---which you agreed to. That lead to a very interesting forty-six minutes of your life where you took a cab with Sherlock to the scene of a crime, was hurriedly introduced to a very exasperated man who your flatmate insisted on calling ‘Gavin’, watched as the detective leaned in questionably close to a dead body, listened as he deduced the forensics scientists at the scene into silence, and sped back to your flat in another cab.

It was a bit unnerving how ‘normal’ (maybe even happy?) he seemed about murder, but you found that his brain worked in a fascinating way. It wasn’t that he could see what others couldn’t, it was that he could connect them in a way no one else could. You immediately began to appreciate that fact, because after all, you were going to live with this man, and it would be helpful to gather pieces of information about his life, even just out of practicality.

Day after day, week after week, you began to slowly add new bits and pieces of information to your mental ‘what there is to know about Sherlock Holmes’ file. He plays the violin (very well and very often, though the amount of time he spends on it decreases every day); apparently ‘Gavin’ is not that man’s real name, but he seems to have given up on correcting Sherlock about it; he has a tendency to store...interesting items in the fridge, especially during cases; speaking of cases, he has a lot of those; he is very particular about how he organizes his clothing by color...the list goes on and on, and it grows every day.

Sherlock had started out as a mystery of sorts to you; sort of this superhuman-like man who has intellect beyond that of anything you’d ever seen. However, that impression did not last very long, which you are actually grateful for. 

Two weeks in and on a particularly mentally taxing evening, Sherlock had gone into what could only be described as 'a period of incredible frustration caused by not knowing’. He was sure that this tantrum would drive you right out of the flat and ready to call Mrs. Woods of Carnaby Street the next morning, but it didn’t; for whatever reason, you’d stayed, and (he would never tell you this) Sherlock was very, very grateful for that.

From that evening on, something seemed to have happened between the two of you, and a true friendship started to bloom in 221B. Soon, you were introduced to Sherlock’s equally brilliant and equally posh brother, Mycroft Holmes; you and Sherlock began to play board games together (which usually ended up in one or both of you playfully scoffing or rolling your eyes at the other); you began to accompany him of his cases sometimes (where you learned that that man’s name is actually Greg Lestrade and not Gavin or Geoffrey); and he began accompanying you to the London Public Library, where you worked.

You decided that ‘human’ Sherlock is way better than ‘genius’ Sherlock will ever be, and you’ll maintain that until the day you die. The Sherlock that childishly complains whenever you playfully shove him into the bathroom to brush his hair in the morning is far more likable than the one who can maintain a completely emotionless face at the sight on a mangled dead body; the Sherlock that comments on your hair whenever you style it differently and teases you whenever you can’t reach something on a high shelf before using his own considerable height to get it for you is much more endearing than the one who maintains that the only thing he cares about is his work.

Now, after three months of living together, you and Sherlock had become friends. Close friends. Best friends, even.

And you like it very much. You like *him* very much.


	3. Lost Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock lets something slip. Also, The Princess Bride makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i already have some of the next chapter written out and honestly cannot wait until sunday so next update on friday! i am absolutely in love with the next chapter cuz the plot REALLY starts to get going. I'm sorry about the mild cliffhanger, there are plenty more to come :)

A typical, bleak London evening usually consists of the two residents of 221B Baker Street lounging around idly in their flat, not speaking to one another but enjoying the easy silence all the same.

And this evening does not differ from the others. Sherlocks sits cross-legged in front of a low table, blue-grey eyes trained on a laptop screen as his fingers tap away on the keys; while Y/N is curled up in the armchair that used to belong to John Watson, nose in a book.

While Y/N has a very extensive mental list of random facts about Sherlock, the consulting detective in question actually keeps one about Y/N as well. At this point, he has collected a plethora of details, greatly ranging in importance and intimacy, but the first thing he added to this list of his was that his flatmate likes reading. Maybe even adores it.

While Sherlock obviously reads a lot for cases or forensics information, he’s noticed that Y/N’s go-to cure for boredom would always be a book of some sort, almost always a novel.

However, one wouldn’t be able to tell that 221B was home to an avid reader simply by looking at the flat seeing as all of the books Y/N read nowadays were borrowed from and returned to the London Public Library, where she works; meaning there aren’t very many books that actually stay in the flat.

‘Analysis of bloodstain patterns… interesting.’ Y/N murmurs.

Sherlock starts, surprised to see her crouching beside him on the floor and peering at the laptop screen over his shoulder. Actually, that’s a lie; Sherlock has been very aware that a few seconds ago, his flatmate had unraveled her stiff limbs, set down her novel, and padded across the living room to join him near the couch.

In fact, he had been so aware of this that his brain had been furiously working on how he should respond if Y/N decided to take a seat next to him---which she did, obviously. After running scenarios through his mind for the 11 seconds he got, he settled on feigning surprise so that she wouldn’t think he had been watching (staring at) her read out of the corner of his eye for the past half an hour, even though he most definitely had been.

‘It’s for my website.’ Sherlock replies, focusing on keeping his eyes trained on the laptop and not straying to the side to catch a glimpse of his flatmate.

With him cross-legged on the floor and Y/N sitting on her heels, they’re on eye level with one another. Not only that, but she is sitting incredibly close to him---Sherlock is sure that if he turned his head a fraction of an inch to the left, his nose would brush against her hair. That thought alone makes his stomach flip, and the fact that her shoulder is lightly pressed against his and the fact that he can feel the warmth radiating off of Y’N’s body doesn’t help at all.

This is, physically, the closest Sherlock has ever been to his flatmate thus far, and it’s a strange feeling; kind of like all the nerves in his body are tingling as if shocked while somehow simultaneously feeling numb and soft.

Y/N leans forward, eyes squinted as she examines one of the images on the laptop screen, and Sherlock is so distracted by the fact that her hair is hanging practically right in front of his face and the fact that he’s actually nervous to breathe right now for some reason that he almost misses her next words.

‘So, what kind of bloodstain pattern is this?’ Y/N asks, pointing towards the picture.

Sherlock blinks, his mind racing and feeling numb at the same time as if drugged.

‘I... that- that is a passive- passive drip pattern.’ he stammers.

The consulting detective continues talking, well aware that he’s answered her question but for some reason feels the uncontrollable urge to say something more. ‘Bloodstains are classified into three basic types, you see, there are passive stains, transfer stains, and protected or impact stains. Passive stains include-’

He stops abruptly, turning towards his flatmate who had leaned back from the screen to fasten Sherlock with a bemused gaze. His pale eyes dart across her face, trying to read her expression. ‘What- why are you staring at me?’

Y/N tilts her head, her smile widening slightly at Sherlock’s reaction. ‘Nothing really, it’s just that… you stuttered.’

That is not what Sherlock had been expecting. Honestly, what Sherlock had been expecting was greatly unrealistic from his perspective but he quickly shoves those thoughts out of his mind.

Instead, he opts for defensiveness. ‘So what if I stuttered?’

‘You never stutter.’

‘Yes I do; it’s perfectly natural.’

‘I know it’s natural but not… not for someone like you.’

_Someone like you. Someone like a freak? Someone like a sociopath? Someone like an arrogant bastard-_

‘Not for someone who’s always so sure of what they say and do. Not for someone so...clever.’ finishes Y/N.

Sherlock takes a second to process that; he’s sure that this is the first time anyone had made his brain falter so many times in one conversation. Y/N is full of firsts.

_How in the world could she think that I’m always sure of what I do when a few moments ago I was struggling to breathe just because she’d leaned forward?_

Sure, he almost always was confident almost to the point of being cocky on cases, but that was his job and surely everyone has to be somewhat competent at their job. When it comes to.... when it comes to practically everything else though---cooking, knitting, playing golf, _relationships_ \---Sherlock really is just making it up as it goes.

‘I’m not always sure of what I say and do.’ says Sherlock rather childishly, and Y/N rolls her eyes playfully.

‘Oh please, you usually speak in paragraphs, and paragraphs only by the way, at crime scenes and never tripped up once.’

‘But this is different.’

‘How is this different?’

‘I wasn’t expecting your question.’ says Sherlock cooly, turning back to his laptop and running a hand through his dark curls to try and hide the pale pink tone setting in on his cheekbones.

‘Well,’ Y/N says, ‘you were just writing a blog post essentially about my question so...’

‘It’s not a blog,’ mutters Sherlock, sliding his fingers on the laptop’s touchpad just to give himself something to do, ‘John keeps a blog; this is an informational website.’

‘Ah right, sorry. Yes, _The Science of Deduction_ ; very informational.’

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at her mildly sarcastic tone. ‘Do you not find this interesting?’

‘Well, it’s certainly a step up from twenty types of tobacco ash.’

‘Twenty three.’

Y/N playfully swats Sherlock’s arm, causing a crooked smile to cross his lips before he abruptly shuts his laptop screen and stands up.

Before his flatmate can protest, Sherlock crosses the room in three strides, picks up the novel Y/N had set down on the arm of her chair and flips it over to read the cover.

‘ _The Princess Bride_ by William Goldman...interesting choice.’ he murmurs, smirking slightly as Y/N walks over to him with her hands outstretched for her book.

She tries to take the novel from Sherlock’s hands but he simply turns, blocking her with his own lanky frame as he turns the book over to read the synopsis on the back out loud. ‘ _A classic tale of love and adventure_.’

Sherlock turns to his flatmate with a raised eyebrow. ‘It’s a romance novel.’

Y/N’s cheeks heat up slightly as she wordlessly tries to reach around the detective to snatch her book, but he simply extends his arm so that the novel is far out of her reach because of their height difference. After a few more of her failed attempts at jumping and lunging in various ways to get her book back, Y/N gives up and takes a step back, extending her hand.

‘Give it back.’ she says shortly, which causes Sherlock to tilt his head at her.

‘You do seem terribly protective of this book considering the fact that I’m not going to rip it up or burn it.’ he replies.

Y/N huffs. ‘Seriously, Sherlock, it isn’t even mine; it belongs to the library and I have to return it.’

‘Right now?’

‘No, in four days.’

‘Exactly, so you don’t need it back right now.’

Deciding to change her tactic, Y/N says, ‘So why do you want it so badly?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Then give it back.’

Sherlock honestly didn’t know why he’s so childishly withholding Y/N’s novel from her, but he does know that the longer he holds onto it the longer he can stand here with Y/N’s body pressed against his as she tries to grab her book and the longer he can watch her cheeks redden and lips part from both effort and playful irritation.

Suddenly, Y/N draws back, taking a step back from the consulting detective. Sherlock is so startled by her retreat that he almost lets go of the book, but he simply turns his head to look at her with a questioning expression.

‘I get it now.’ Y/N says with half a smile on her face.

Sherlock blinks. ‘Get what?’

She nods towards the novel he’s clutching. ‘You want to read it, don’t you?’

Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes, a movement so familiar to Y/N that it almost makes her laugh.

‘No, of course, I don’t want to read it.’ he says quickly.

Y/N crosses her arms, a bemused expression on her face. ‘You know, wanting to read a romance novel isn’t a bad thing.’

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to have his cheeks heat up.

‘ _I_ don’t want to read it,’ he says. ‘I just want to know why _you_ would want to read it; it doesn’t make sense.’

‘Well, it’s a beautiful story. Plus, The Princess Bride is a bit of a classic. And what do you mean by it doesn’t make sense?’

‘Love stories don’t make sense; fictional or… or otherwise. Especially romance novels, they just add unrealistic expectations and skewed perspectives on something that is already illogical. I mean really, what are the chances you’ll really get kidnapped and then saved by some long-lost childhood friends? Close to zero-’

Y/N interrupts him, nodding towards The Princess Bride.

‘How do you know that that’s what the book is about?’ she asks.


	4. Somebody To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock reveals a little more and The Princess Bride makes its penultimate showing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back :)  
> I am so so so sorry I haven't updated in... a while. And I also apologize for how short this chapter is but I have more exciting news.  
> I'm looking for a beta!  
> Basically I need someone to edit my work and listen to me run my ideas past them. My beta will also have early access to new chapters (and they will know the full idea/plot for this story because I have that all planned out) as well as input on what will happen in later chapters. They will also get access to a playlist that has a certain special meaning to the story as well as decide which songs go on that playlist :D  
> So if you would like to be my beta, please drop a comment down below! I don't really have an idea of how exactly I'm going to pick a beta, so I've decided on this: if you draw me a profile pic (it can be of literally anything but preferably something Sherlock inspired), I will most likely choose you haha. Let's be real, I'm just a sucker for art.
> 
> I'm asking for a beta now because the next chapter is what creates basically the entire plot so I need someone to make sure it's perfect before I post it. It's gonna be really long so this week's update is a bit short. I've also moved update days to Tuesdays officially and the next chap will go up once i get a beta :)
> 
> Happy reading and pls be my beta lmao, i need y'all to help me.
> 
> Xxx,
> 
> Ebony

‘How do you know that that’s what the book is about?’

Sherlock abruptly stops speaking, realizing what he’d just said. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘I asked you how you know what The Princess Bride’s about seeing as you seem to detest love stories so much.’ his flatmate asks, perching herself on the edge of the armchair.

Sherlock’s sharp eyes drift down to the cover of book as if willing William Goldman to spring right out of the pages and save him from this conversation. ‘I- I could tell from the cover and made a guess based on the synopsis. Also, I’ve heard about it in the passing; society seems to like these types of stories.’

Y/N tilts her head, and Sherlock can tell she doesn’t totally believe him. And for good reason too, because he is flat out lying between his teeth.

In his teenage years, the consulting detective had found a bit of a refuge in novels; it was the one way he could listen to people speak and get to know them and cheer and grieve for them without anyone judging him for it. He could return to those people - those characters - whenever he felt like it and they would always be the same, whether he’d visited them two years ago or just last weekend.

But with romance novels, it was different. They were a lot more enchanting, more intimate, and he would never admit this but they gave him access to something he thought he would never experience: love. 

Correction---loving someone who loves him back.

So yes, Sherlock was absolutely familiar with the Princess Bride as a teenager and he had watched the film adaptation more times than he cares to admit; but now that he’s being confronted about it by Y/N, he suddenly finds that his insides seem to have shriveled with embarrassment for reasons unknown even to the detective himself.

Perhaps he simply found the fact that he had greatly enjoyed classic romance novels (and still does, secretly though) a bit too humanizing for his liking. 

Even if he wishes he could tear down all his walls around his flatmate.

‘Aha, finally!’

Sherlock starts and suddenly realizes that the book is once again in the hand of its rightful owner. Y/N hugs her novel protectively to her chest and triumphantly grins at Sherlock, who blinks, still slightly discombobulated. 

And God she looks so pretty right now.

No, not just right now. She always looks pretty; beautiful even. 

To be fair, his flatmate could get dragged across London and back and Sherlock would still think she's pretty. But right now especially, with the lamplights creating a series of intricate highlights in her pupils; her cheeks flushed slightly both from the effort it took to get the book and triumph when she finally succeeded, it really hit Sherlock. 

The detective lets his pale eyes linger on her for just a few seconds too long before clearing his throat slightly and glancing towards the clock without actually seeing the tiny metal hands. Y/N's gaze follows his.

‘Well,’ she says, giving him a pointed look, ‘I think I'm gonna go to sleep now but I'm going to leave my book on the coffee table and it's still going to be there in the morning, right?’

Sherlock blinks and shakes his head. ‘I have no reason to take it.’

Y/N smirks. ‘Sure.’

But before Sherlock can open his mouth to respond sarcastically back, his flatmate had already slipped out of the shared living room, presumably to go get ready for bed, leaving the detective standing alone in his striped pajamas, still staring at the spot where she had just been standing.

Almost subconsciously, Sherlock's gaze drifts to the low table next to him, resting on the slightly worn cover of The Princess Bride. Hesitantly, he picks up the book, enjoying how the rough, old paperboard feels underneath his fingers, and idly flips through it; a waterfall of ink and paper.

And stories. And love.

An idea hits him.

Sherlock glances quickly towards the hallway leading towards Y/N's room; it's dark, meaning she'd shut the lights off and gone to bed. He stares down at the book for a few seconds longer before heading off to his own room on the other end of the flat, clutching the book in his hands gently yet tightly, as if it were a precious piece of china.


End file.
